


Experimental Theology

by DownToTheSea



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, mentions of experimentation, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownToTheSea/pseuds/DownToTheSea
Summary: Intent on studying Dust, the new Magisterium captures Balthamos.
Relationships: Balthamos/Baruch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Made a Lab Rat.

The prisons of this world’s newly formed Magisterium were impressively dim and dingy, considering that they had had less than a century to acquire the appropriately wretched atmosphere. Even Balthamos, as weakened as he was, remained mostly visible to a human observer.

And he had  _ plenty  _ of those, repulsed and fascinated by the wicked, rebellious angel they had captured. He wasn’t certain if he disliked the former more, with their mutterings of “unholy creature” whenever they saw him and their decidedly less holy willingness to inflict pain on him, or the latter. Those were the ones who studied him, cold and calculating.

They would have considered their actions blasphemous if he had been anything other than what he was, but as it stood they had bled him, wrenched feathers out of his wings, siphoned off his very essence, tortured him just to see what the limits of his incorporeal form were, or perhaps for the sheer satisfaction of it disguised behind a scientific facade, and all the while displaying not one shred of guilt.

They wanted to research original sin, and what better representation than a fallen angel? He took vindictive pleasure in the fact that everything they took from him eventually disintegrated in their hands, crumbling into golden particles that floated away and dissolved into the air. But it didn’t seem to deter them; they scribbled in their notebooks and talked in low voices, their eyes alight with some diabolic fervor.

At first, unsure of exactly what sort of powers he possessed, they had found it necessary to keep him restrained even within his cell. He had let slip his shape-changing ability on the way here in a failed attempt to get away, so they had at least known to keep the door tightly sealed and watched at all times. Then, his one gleam of hope had been that they simply shackled his wrists to the wall; he had expected them to target his wings, which he knew from experience would have been infinitely more painful and incapacitating. Then, he’d still had the strength to keep his connection with Baruch active: feeling him moving far from this place, hearing his fear and guilt at not having been there to protect him and trying to comfort him as best he could. And also to dissuade him from doing something foolish like trying to come and rescue him.

But now, drained and aching from their experiments, he was too weak to pose any sort of threat to the Magisterium, so they didn’t take the trouble of chaining him up: just threw him back in his cell when they were done with him, leaving him to collapse wherever he landed and curl into a ball with one bleeding wing over his head. And he was too weak to communicate any more with Baruch, which was probably for the best as he couldn’t have kept concealing how much pain he was in from him, but Balthamos missed him. They were still connected – there was only one thing that would permanently sever them – but at best Baruch’s presence was a low background hum. At worst…

Balthamos hadn’t been truly alone for a very, very long time.

He tried his best to grind any sort of hope into dust as soon as it was formed. Eventually, yes, he would escape, but it wouldn’t be soon. It would be after his captors grew bored or complacent. He was immortal and he was clever; he could wait, couldn’t he? They wouldn’t kill him, not when he yielded such fascinating results (a thought that made him shiver) but what  _ would  _ kill him was getting reckless and taking a chance he shouldn’t.

Still, he longed to be free of the pain, at least just for a while. To feel Baruch near him again.

That was one more reason he was anxious to get out as quickly as he could, foolish though it was. Rationally, no one should have been coming for him. Though it was barely a hundred years old, this Magisterium was powerful. There were guards everywhere, trained and ruthless soldiers, and wherever they had taken him was part of a vast underground labyrinth that would be nearly impossible to navigate.

And yet… Baruch. Balthamos held two very firm yet contradictory beliefs, and he knew he was right about both: Baruch was the wisest and most level-headed person across all the worlds, and he also possessed a tendency to throw himself recklessly into danger for the sake of others, doubly so for the sake of Balthamos. It was a trait that seemed rather prevalent in humans, one that Balthamos would have sniffed at and called  _ an overabundance of heroism  _ on anyone else, but for Baruch he had been proud, even if it also terrified him.

Now that he couldn’t hear him anymore, he was even more terrified that he might be planning a doomed rescue attempt. If Baruch did come, both of them would be trapped here, and watching him endure this would be more than Balthamos could bear.

He lay there on the stone floor, too exhausted to move or to weep, almost too exhausted to even be afraid, but incapable of getting any rest. But he had to, he reminded himself; he had to keep up some strength so he could get out of here. He would escape, fly away and find Baruch…

Thinking of him didn’t exactly make the pain go away, but it did help to distract him, so Balthamos flung himself into every memory he had and tried to forget where he was.

Locked away underground, with no glimpse of any sun or stars, he lost track of time. (Not that, being nearly fifteen thousand years old, Balthamos had ever set much store by marking such things. He had his own north star, and time barely touched either one of them.) Now there were only the periods he spent in his lightless cell and the time he spent under the  _ tender _ care of the Magisterium’s experimental theologians.

The metal door had just slammed shut behind him once more, and Balthamos was wondering if he had the wherewithal to crawl to the side of the room so he could lean against the wall and try to cool his burning, aching wings on the stone, when he noticed that something was different.

With his mind scattered and numbed by pain, It took him a moment to identify it, but at last he realized that the low hum of Baruch’s thoughts wasn’t just unusually strong today: it was getting closer.

“No,” he rasped. “No, no no no – ” He broke off, realizing it wouldn’t do any good, but gathered all of his remaining fortitude to send it through the mental link as loudly as he could, warning Baruch not to get any closer, not to try to come get him, no matter how desperately he wanted just that.

If Baruch heard him, he ignored him. He was going to get himself captured or killed. In the fever of his terror Balthamos could picture it: those lovely wings of his pierced through to bring him to the ground, his dear Baruch thrown into another one of these cells, the same torment inflicted on him as Balthamos had been living.

With a helpless sob, he cursed and feebly slammed his hand into the stone, regretting it immediately afterwards as it sent shockwaves through his weakened form. His hand went partially through the floor before rebounding with a painful snap. He was losing the ability even to hold himself together; surely he wouldn’t survive much longer. Perhaps that was why Baruch was coming now. Perhaps he really had believed that Balthamos could escape on his own up until this point.

Of course he had; he had always believed Balthamos was capable of more than Balthamos himself did. It had always made him want to try to be better in truth. But now he couldn’t.

He lifted his hand to his eyes, watching as his already faint golden aura flickered in and out. If he looked closer, he knew, he would see a miniscule but steady stream of what would look like gold dust coming off him, and his form blurred around the edges. The Magisterium had taken him apart after all. He was dying – slowly, but inexorably.

Even as cowardly tears filled his eyes, he threw every last bit of strength he had left into screaming for Baruch to stay away. There was no point in risking himself on a rescue when Balthamos was already dying, no matter how dearly he wished he could see him again. At the very least, perhaps he would get close enough to bid a proper farewell to. More tears splashed down, hissing through him and landing on the floor.

He couldn’t say if his warnings were being heard or not. They certainly weren’t being heeded; Baruch’s thoughts only grew louder and louder, until he was almost close enough to communicate with properly, and then the connection suddenly cut off.

Balthamos let out an involuntary choking noise, searching desperately to rekindle the link. Baruch was still alive, at least he could feel that much, but for some reason he had withdrawn so far that it was no longer possible to tell where he was.

All of his power was bent on finding Baruch. He didn’t even hear the door opening and the Magisterium coming for him once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever get really emotional over the fact that Balthamos almost certainly would have survived his encounter with Father Gomez (at least, a little longer, since he already seemed to be dying ;_;) if he had only lied and said they were on the same side, since Father Gomez thought they must be? But Balthamos was so terrified/repulsed at the idea of being on the Magisterium's side that it didn't even occur to him and he flatly denied it immediately? Because I think about that a lot.
> 
> Chapter Two should be up shortly and will feature Cradling Someone in Their Arms!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit beyond me, so I ended up splitting the conclusion into two chapters! Enjoy <3

For the first time in what must have been days or weeks, desperation firing him with new strength, Balthamos tried to break away from them, but all it earned him was a wrenched wing and a crack against the passage’s stone wall that left him dazed. Reality faded away from him; if they wanted him moved, the Magisterium guards had to do it themselves. (He was just conscious enough to derive great satisfaction from being an annoyance to them, however minimal.)

The theologians were only dimly present in his awareness. Balthamos spoke thousands upon thousands of languages, but today their words bled together without meaning, and when they shook him hard, demanding answers to some question or other, all he could do was stare at them dully.

Hours passed. Flashes of pain sometimes alerted him to their work, but for the most part he was sunk in a trance, devoting what little concentration he had to searching for Baruch in all the surrounding tunnels – calling for him too, though he couldn’t tell if it was out loud or just in his mind. But there was nothing: he was still alone.

The theologians, currently prodding about the wounds they had inflicted on his wings and the older scars there, were distracted by the new tears trailing down his cheeks and eagerly attempted to gather a sample. A long time ago, Balthamos had been stubbornly disinclined enough towards authority that he would have shut his eyes and refused to let them have it on sheer principle. He was still stubborn, and still disinclined to authority, but now he was far too exhausted to try. He let them take it; at least it was less painful than their previous activities. Besides, even his tears would eventually dispel into the air along with everything else. Along with  _ him,  _ eventually.

As they hauled him up and back to his cell, his legs no longer cooperating in the slightest, his unfocused eyes caught a glimpse of fluttering brown wings near one of the bright lamps in the room. Just a moth, albeit one with large wings.

The guards jerked him through the door, the frame clipping his raw wings. Balthamos’s vision went white as they scraped through, and he lost sight of the moth.

When he next came back to himself, he was on the floor of his cell, which was starting to become dishearteningly familiar. His wings were still on fire from the rough treatment earlier, and it took him a moment to notice any sensation other than that, but when he did he went very still.

He cracked an eye open to discover that the moth had managed to follow him inside and was crawling on his cheek, wings fluttering in what almost seemed, to his overwrought mind, like the faintest of caresses, before leaping off when the door clanged shut. The moth darted up, hovering in front of the door for a little while almost as though studying it, before making a circuit of the walls and returning to Balthamos.

Though he was half-certain he was hallucinating, he struggled up and held his hand out. But before the moth could land on his finger, there was a swirl of light, a whoosh of displaced air, and instead of the moth Baruch was kneeling in front of him, one hand on his.

Balthamos should have said something. More than anything he wanted to be brave, but he would have settled for witty, or even just holding himself together long enough to beg Baruch to get to safety. He did none of those things.

He fell apart.

His fingers tightened on Baruch’s, though he wasn’t strong enough to pull him any closer; but Baruch was, and his arms were around him instantly. Balthamos heard himself making incomprehensible ragged noises, which he tried to stifle, thinking of the guards, but they refused to stop.

Baruch’s wings swept out and around, sheltering him yet careful not to touch his own damaged wings. That small, thoughtful kindness more than anything convinced Balthamos he wasn’t hallucinating: his shaking arms wrapped around Baruch in return, and even in the midst of the Magisterium’s dungeons the tiniest kernel of hope and safety began to blossom.

Of course, Balthamos knew he wasn’t truly safe – neither of them were. But his mind seemed determined to fool him into thinking he was simply because Baruch was here and holding him. How foolish he was.

“You are not,” Baruch said. “I am going to take you out of here, and we will keep each other safe, I swear, Balthamos.”

Balthamos attempted to give a haughty sniff, wishing he was surer of his voice. “Very easy to – ” He stopped. “How did you know what I was thinking? For that matter, why could I not hear you when you were close?”

“We’ve been together for almost four thousand years; I don’t have to be in your mind to know what you’re thinking.”

A wave of tenderness swept him up. “Baruch…”

“And you were talking to yourself, out loud.”

“Oh – ” Balthamos let out an exasperated groan. He would have hid behind his wings if he’d been capable of moving them.

Baruch was stroking his hair. “Shh, Balthamos, it’s all right. Save your wings.”

“I am  _ quite  _ sure I did not say  _ anything  _ out loud this time – ”

“That was because I know you.”

Though he couldn’t see Baruch’s face at the moment, he could easily picture his expression: that gentle smile, the hint of mischief that came out so very rarely, his eyes sad, because he was only teasing Balthamos to distract him from how much everything hurt.

And how hopeless their situation was. Whatever shards of a smile had been putting themselves together on his face fell away. Baruch didn’t even know just how bad of a condition he was in. To be honest, he had been hoping their telepathic link would do the hard work for him. Cowardly as ever.

“I’m sorry,” Balthamos said. “You are in danger now because of me, you should not have come – though I am glad you did.”

“Of course I did! Did you expect me to leave you to suffer in such a place?” Baruch sounded horrified. “I had to search for someone who was willing to tell me where to find the entrance to this place and how to navigate it; it is a labyrinth, Balthamos, you will see. You could never have escaped on your own, clever as you are. But I am sorry, that it took so long to come to you. What they’ve done…” One of his hands, warm on Balthamos’s shoulder, trailed over his back, where his wings were joined. It was only a feather-light touch, but it still made him stiffen in pain, and Baruch drew his hand back quickly.

_ Worse than you know,  _ Balthamos ached to say, but couldn’t. How long did he even have left, before his strength gave out and he turned to dust in Baruch’s arms?

Baruch deserved to know, but he wasn’t brave enough to tell him. Though perhaps there was a way...

“Baruch,” he said, his voice trembling just a little. “My dear… You never did answer my other question. Here you are, yet I can hardly feel you at all.”

Baruch shifted. “Ah,” he said, sounding almost guilty. “I’m fine, Balthamos, so please do not worry. On my way here, I encountered more agents of the Magisterium. I lost them, but…”

One wing curled back from Balthamos and spread out, and in the gloom of the cell it took a moment for Balthamos to spot the slight tear near the tip. He choked.

“I’m fine!” Baruch reassured him again. “It is only a very small wound, and near the edge. It will heal on its own. I can still fly perfectly well, even; it only pains me a bit. But I could feel how deeply you were hurt, and I feared if you had to share in my pain, however slight, you…”

“You cut yourself off from me, to save me.”

Baruch touched his cheek, his faint aura blending with Balthamos’s steadily dimming one. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Balthamos lifted his hand and wound his fingers in between Baruch’s, still struggling for the right words. Baruch could try to protect him as much as he wanted (and he would, because that was what he did) but it made no difference: he was dying anyway.

“Oh, Baruch, I wish I had your strength,” he said miserably.

Extricating himself from Baruch’s arms, he staggered upright and over to the wall, leaning against it and already feeling the toll it had taken on him even to stand. Perhaps that hadn’t been the wisest idea.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” Baruch said, worry creeping into his voice.

“Then you need a wider acquaintance.” There was no true acid in his tone – there never was, not for Baruch – and the only reaction he got was an even more worried expression as Baruch got to his feet.

“Balthamos,” he said, softly, “tell me.”

Whatever pathetic excuse for resolve he had crumbled. He was about to bolt to the refuge of Baruch’s arms once more and tell him every last detail, when the door slammed open.

In the darkness and with their outlines so weak, it took his captors a moment to realize that there were two angels where there should have been only one. There was a moment of utter stillness, then an outcry and a confused scramble among the guards. Someone realized that the best way of handling the situation was to simply shut the door on them again, but they weren’t quite fast enough; another swirl of light flashed at the corner of his vision, and Baruch in the form of a hawk darted over their heads, wheeling in the passage and flying out of sight just as the door clanged shut on Balthamos.

Darkness pressed in on him from all sides; he was alone once again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Cradling Someone in Their Arms

Balthamos stood frozen, feeling as though the ground had just dropped out from under him and he couldn’t get his wings out in time to prevent himself from plummeting. Rationally, he knew that whatever opportunity Baruch had seized, he hadn’t had any time to warn Balthamos, and with their mental link subdued, there was no way of telling him after the fact. He  _ knew  _ that.

Irrationally, he was alone again in the dark, dying, while the love of his life endangered himself in a vain attempt to save him, when all Balthamos had really wanted was for him to stay.

Pushing himself off the wall, he managed to make it to the door, but that was as far as he could follow. For a moment, his hand lost its solidity again and slipped through the door, and Balthamos very nearly couldn’t put it back to rights. The effort proved to be too much for him. Before he knew it he was on his knees. The door was the only thing keeping him semi-upright, and that was a mixed blessing, because if he tested himself against too many more obstacles, he would lose his structure altogether.

His head was fuzzy and spinning, and he was exhausted. Now he knew why so many humans found the phrase “just a little nap” so enticing. Angels didn’t exactly take naps, and Balthamos rarely slept at all, yet he couldn’t help thinking that if he just closed his eyes for a moment, he would feel more rested. Perhaps when he opened them again, Baruch would have come back…

He sank to the floor.

Just as his eyelids fluttered shut, the door boomed open again. He jerked instinctively and blinked, vision grey and blurry.

“Oh, go away,” he muttered sourly, too tired to look up. “You people can’t even let a dying angel alone.”

“I’m not going away,” said Baruch, his voice the sweetest music Balthamos had ever heard, “and I am certainly not going to let you die.”

He knelt next to Balthamos, taking his hand. “I am sorry I left like that. I drew the guards far away and doubled back for you. If we change now they will never catch us; moths again, I was thinking, stealth is better than speed right now, and I can show you the way out.”

However desperately glad he was to hear Baruch’s voice again, he was more wretched over what he knew he had to do next. Balthamos forced himself to sit up. “The way is clear?” he asked.

Baruch nodded.

“Then you must go. Quickly, before they return. Now they know you are here, they will not rest until they have caught you too. This is your best chance.”

“You say that as if…” Baruch’s expression fractured. “Without you?”

“Yes, without me!” Balthamos took Baruch’s face in both his hands. “Look at me,” he said in a softer tone. “I can’t change forms, I can’t fly, I can’t even stand.”

“Then I shall carry you.”

“Are you going to do that as a moth? And once you’ve managed that, I look forward to our terribly stealthy escape, as I am dragged through this entire labyrinth with my wings tripping every Magisterium agent between us and the exit.”

“Balthamos, now is not the time – ”

“Please!” he interrupted, voice breaking. “My dear… dear Baruch, please – you cannot fix this. You have to go.”

Surely he couldn’t hold onto his courage for much longer; soon he would waver and break down and beg Baruch to stay with him for every moment he had left. Even now there was a part of him that hoped, selfishly, that Baruch would refuse to leave him.

Another surge of weakness tore at him. Everything went black for a moment, or possibly several moments, and when he struggled back into the haze of the world he was substantially more horizontal than he had been before, though Baruch had kept him from hitting the floor, cradling him with both arms and a wing.

“You’re dying.” On the surface, Baruch sounded calmer than Balthamos would have in his place, but even with a muted connection he felt his searing deep agony at the thought. They had been together for nearly four millennia; one losing the other would have been like a compass losing its pull north.

But he went on – he had always been braver than Balthamos. “I have an idea.”

Balthamos felt a cold prickling of dread. Baruch’s ideas tended towards the self-sacrificial variety.

“Angels can share power. You told me so yourself,” Baruch continued, only a slight tremor in his voice giving him away.

Then he did something that truly showed how shaken he was: he willingly brought up his erstwhile brother. “And we know the Authority did it, with Metatron.”

Balthamos shuddered. “Both of them were wildly powerful; you are not. We both need every shred we have and I cannot deprive you – ”

“I will take it back once we escape, and you recover your own,” Baruch said, as though that solved anything. “I would only be lending it to you.”

“I do not  _ want  _ your power,” Balthamos’s voice was climbing higher and higher in panic. “Lent or otherwise! I want you to fly away safely! This could  _ kill  _ you – ”

“Balthamos,” Baruch said gently. “Please let me do this for you.”

“We agreed,” he said, pleading. “Four thousand years ago, we agreed there were no debts – ”

“This is no debt.” Baruch gave him a faint smile. “This is because I love you.”

“Well, that was your first mistake,” said Balthamos before he could stop himself, then squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had never spoken.

When he opened them again, Baruch was considering him with a grave, sad expression.

“On the contrary,” he said, “it was the one thing I’ve ever done that I’m certain of.”

Balthamos had to look away. “How?” he croaked.

“What?”

“Somehow you are still as sincere as you were the day we met. And as brave. There you blithely sit, in terrible danger, planning to give away all of your power solely for love, for love of… Neither of us even know how to go about it.”

“I do not,” Baruch agreed, “but I will try to find a way, nonetheless.”

Balthamos stared, torn between adoration and wonder. “You are so  _ optimistic.” _

“Only because of you.”

“Well, if nothing else,” Balthamos said, more to himself than Baruch, “at least I have done that.”

Baruch looked at him, pained. “And so much more, dear Balthamos,” he said softly, and squeezed his hand. “But hush now, while I try to discern what to do.”

“I do not need to discern anything to know that what you  _ should  _ do is fly away immediately – ”

“Balthamos.”

He fell silent while Baruch bowed his head, but only for a minute before becoming anxious again. “They will be back at any moment, it’s already been too long – go, please – ”

Baruch’s eyes snapped open. “I know what to do.”

“Can you do it  _ quickly?” _

“Yes,” said Baruch, unruffled. “Hold still, please.”

Satisfied with that promise, Balthamos did hold still, not that he had the energy to do much more. Baruch pulled him upright, still cradling him. He was careful and as gentle as only Baruch could be, but even he couldn’t keep Balthamos’s wings from grazing the floor again. Balthamos kept his mouth firmly shut, the thought of the Magisterium finding them ever-prevalent, but a pained noise sounded in the back of his throat anyway.

Baruch stopped for a moment, looking at him with concern, before he finished easing Balthamos up.

“Oh, Balthamos, I wish I had your power to heal…” he said.

“It would do you little enough good, unless the Magisterium wants to see how I react to paper cuts next.”

“Unfortunately, I believe we shall have to deprive them of the opportunity,” said Baruch rather grimly.

“Good. Now are you – oh…”

Baruch had wound his arms around his shoulders and drawn him into a secure embrace.

“I love you too, and while this is undoubtedly pleasant, I fail to see how it –  _ oh.” _

A faint golden mist arose around them, streaming away from Baruch and washing across Balthamos. Power began to return to him: very little, but it was enough. The constant ache of the last weeks began to fade into the background, and he felt almost as though he had awoken from a prolonged sleep. The floor under them felt reassuringly solid instead of unrelenting pressure against his weakened form.

Baruch’s arms were tight around him, one hand buried in his hair. (Balthamos suspected that this was not even remotely the same way that Metatron had gone about receiving  _ his  _ power, but it seemed to be working just as well.)

Though Baruch was still concentrating on whatever it was he was doing, Balthamos felt him spare a moment to take down the mental barriers he’d built up between them, apparently satisfied now that it wouldn’t lead to disastrous consequences. Their minds connected once more; finally, he felt the familiar swirl of Baruch’s thoughts through his mind, the beloved voice always there as a comfort for any lonely hour. Balthamos could have sobbed from sheer relief.

“That’s enough,” he managed, voice trembling. “Baruch, you’ve given me enough.”

“Only a little more,” Baruch murmured, but he sounded far away. “You were hurt so badly…”

“Baruch!”

With their renewed link, the knowledge snapped to him as soon as he looked for it; he searched instinctively for the point of connection in the flow of power between them and hastily cut it off. The mist disappeared, leaving them in darkness. Baruch crumpled into his arms.

“Baruch?” Balthamos said again. It sounded too loud in the abrupt silence, and for one long, dreadful moment he had no answer.

Baruch stirred, mind returning to consciousness. “Are you all right?”

Balthamos gave a shaky exhale. “Am  _ I  _ all right?  _ You  _ are the one who has just so thoroughly demonstrated why angels of our rank should not attempt such things.”

“I will interpret that as a  _ yes.” _

“Of course you will; you are an optimist,” Balthamos said, warm and utterly reverent, and kissed him.

A short while later, two tiny moths flitted through the dungeon halls, passing unnoticed by frustrated Magisterium agents still searching for Baruch. One of the moths seriously contemplated turning into a snake and biting their ankles, no matter how undignified it was, but he could tell Baruch was overtaxed already, so he let it be.

After seemingly endless twists and turns in the passages, Baruch never failing in his guidance, they began to climb, and only a few minutes later they darted underneath the final door and emerged into a clear, moonlit night. In the distance was a cathedral spire, from underneath which they had just come. The entrance Baruch had found was in the middle of a forest outside of town, far away from any people but a few surreptitiously posted guards.

They flew away, into the trees, and lost no time changing back into their angel forms.

“I cannot  _ abide  _ that,” Balthamos said, shivering and stretching his wings. He turned to look at Baruch, who was likewise extending his wings in relief, but seemed distant and rather drained.

“Let me return your power,” Balthamos began, but Baruch held up a hand.

“You should regain some of your own first. I can do without it for a little while longer.”

Baruch believed that what he was saying was the truth, Balthamos could tell, but from where he was standing it didn’t look as certain. He stepped closer, taking his arm.

“Then let us find someplace to rest,” he said, quiet and tender, and felt Baruch’s relief at the prospect, a longed-for mental image already forming of them tucked away into some soft, sheltered corner of the world, Balthamos held safely in his arms at last. Weary as he was, he took flight eagerly to make that vision a reality.

Balthamos followed him, with an uneasy backwards glance at the cathedral, its dark shape blotting out the stars. No matter how far they flew from the spire of the Magisterium, it seemed to him that night that they never truly got any farther away.


End file.
